


Stupid Songs

by Singe_Addams



Category: Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, F/M, Hope, Horsemen, Humor, Male-Female Friendship, Romance, Sexual Content, Storytelling, Vampires, War Era
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-17
Updated: 2011-05-17
Packaged: 2017-10-19 12:39:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/200932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Singe_Addams/pseuds/Singe_Addams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Something dark and strange has infiltrated the Rohirrim. Something that just might give Eowyn and Merry the strength to go on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stupid Songs

**Author's Note:**

> The 'songs' are modified poems stolen from Dorothy Parker, Oscar  
> Wilde and Edwin Arlington Robinson.

There was no day, no light, and no hope in the endless night that the evil smogs and fumes of Mordor had created. For many, many endless hours of riding through the grasslands and forests of Rohan the gloom of the dark and the promise of battle and death weighed heavily on Eowyn’s soul. The order was given to stop for sleep and the Rohirrim, over five thousand horse-warriors, halted. Eowyn’s small traveling companion, sitting before her on her horse, slipped out from under the protective screen of her cloak, landed noiselessly on the ground, and disappeared into the trees. She watched him go, impressed, as ever, by his stealth and quickness. It was as if he truly was the magical creature of her favorite childhood tales.

Seeing to her horse’s comfort before her own, as all the Riders of Rohan did, Eowyn led Windfola beyond the outer edge of the camp of the Eored she was riding with. Stopping in seclusion among a grove of grey-barked Aspen trees, she removed the war-saddle and bridle and rubbed him down quickly and throroughly, paying special, gentle attention to the tender places where the straps had rubbed him raw due to the desperate pace. He snuffled at her, wanting reassurance, and she spoke low words of encouragement as she blew warm breaths onto his muzzle and gave him dried slivers of sweet apple. Windfola laid his great head on her shoulder and she bore as much of his weight as she could while he chewed gratefully, occasionally picking up and shaking his tired hooves. Then he moved away to crop the long grass.

The men gathered together to bear each other up with cold food (as no fires were allowed) songs, stories and companionship. Eowyn did not join them. She was not wanted, which was as well. The greatest gift the men could give her was to ignore her forbidden presence and she asked for nothing more. She was hidden well enough to shake out of her heavy, concealing helmet and armor and luxuriate in her homespun shirt and breeches. She rinsed the sweat away with water from her waterskin and combed her hair. She put her dark cloak back on to guard against an accidental sighting. Suddenly the strains of a song she had heard often drifted through the dark from a neighboring Eored encampment hidden beyond the trees.

 _Her heart has gone away,_  
its House is shut and still.  
Through broken walls and grey  
the winds blow bleak and shrill.  
Our poor, fancy play  
on her is wasted skill.  
There is only ice in the Maiden on the Hill  
Her heart has gone away,  
though she, herself, did stay.

 

Ah, but Eowyn, for it was her song, had not stayed. She was riding to battle and she was going to fight and die a glorious death. They would finally sing different songs about the Woman of Ice. The Shieldmaiden of Rohan, tall, hard, unsmiling and ungentle, would be remembered for her mighty deeds and not her barren heart. Alone and strong she tilted her chin in the air. A small, cold hand took hers suddenly and she startled.

“Anyone I know?” asked a cheerful voice. Relief so strong she could have wept flooded her as she looked down into the mischievous face of her returned crony, Meriadoc Brandybuck, a ‘Hobbit’ from ‘The Shire’ far to the North. He wasn’t supposed to be there either. Too small. Too inexperienced. Desperate. Eowyn did not regret bringing him. “Sounds like a song they used to sing about a Hobbit lass I know. Not nearly as good, though.” He went on thoughtfully. “How did it go? Oh…” He began to sing and Eowyn and her horse listened in astonishment.

 _“Oh, ponder, lads, the porcupine,_  
refresh our recollection,  
and sit a moment, to define  
her means of self-protection.

 _How amply armored, she, to fend_  
the fear of chase that haunts her,  
How well-prepared, our lovely friend,  
and who alive would want her?”

 

Eowyn remembered a voice speaking low, bruising words to her. ‘I say to you, Lady, that you are cold.’ She shook her head to clear it of the bleak memory and turned on the Hobbit, snatching her hand away. “Spare me your foolish song. Where have you been?!” she snarled.

“Getting the news, as usual,” he whispered back unconcernedly, patting Windfola who had strolled over to welcome him. He hummed a little.

Eowyn regarded him. A Holbytla. She had dreamed, as a girl, silly childhood fantasies, of having a Holbytla of her own. A magical friend who could teach her how to talk to the animals and never excluded her from anything. Suddenly, here was one and Eowyn and all who met him, even King Theoden himself, was delighted and absolutely staggered. ‘Merry’ stood only as tall as her waist, and had curly hair, laughing eyes and simple clothes of dark greens and browns with a grey elven cloak making him nearly invisible over all. He was not magical, he could not talk to animals but, oh, where had he been when she had needed him? Ah well, better late than never. Defeated, she lowered her eyes and cast about for a way to discreetly apologize. “Will you tell me what is happening in the camps?” she asked, as polite as a small bird.

Merry smiled up at her and continued with his report. “I suppose I will. We’re three days from Gondor but it looks like all paths are being watched. King Theoden is holding up well for all that he’s so old and plans on his next move. The men are resigned to battle before we ever reach Gondor so the only thing that’s plaguing the soldiers is the continuing rumor of a blood-drinking Darkling feeding off the horses.” Eowyn wondered how he could give such information as easily as if they were chatting about the weather and sighed as she scratched her horse thoroughly behind the ears.

“Will you pet me, too? I’ve had a miserable day,” Merry asked. Eowyn, used to Merry’s flirtatious teasing, looked down her nose at him with eyebrows raised in a caricature of snobbish nobility.

“Of course not, Master Meriadoc, didn’t you hear the song? I have nothing that would ease you.”

Merry clutched his heart. “There must be some comfort you can bestow, My Lady, to keep the Darkness at bay.” Eowyn offered him an apple slice covered in horse spit. Merry took it, rapturously. “Oh, thank you!” That moment was the closest Eowyn came to laughing out loud in many months.

She gave Windfola his feed bag to supplement what grass he had grazed and, picking up her own ration pack, sank wearily onto the ground. Merry companionably sat opposite her and refused his share, as he always did, putting his apple slice in a vest pocket. “I’ve already eaten. A little something I snatched out from under no less a personage than your brother.” From under her brother? Suspicion, Eowyn’s other constant companion, tapped her on the shoulder and she nodded, acknowledging then ignoring it.

She rested and ate. Windfola wandered some few paces away and, shaking his empty bag off, fell asleep, standing. Then, “How did the blood-sucker rumor get started?” Eowyn asked suddenly, startling Merry. He had been staring at her face, another habit of his that she was used to. He would stare and his fingers would twitch. Had he been anyone else she would have despised him for it but she could forgive Merry easily. How often had he caught her pondering his bare, hairy feet after all?

“Oh! Eh…” He stammered in answer. “Thonwyn of the Second Eored found some strange wounds in the neck of his horse who had become restless and nervous enough to wake him the last time we stopped. Bite wounds. He swears an evil spirit is among us, sent from Mordor, and told his friends, who told their friends, who told their friends and now every scratch found on Rohan’s noble steeds was caused by a Drinker.”

“Ridiculous,” Eowyn said, grave grey eyes studying him closely.

“It’s a very strange world so…you never know what might be lurking right under your very nose, Eowyn,” Merry said with pompous gravity and she swallowed her bread almost nervously. Merry suddenly pointed at her. “Rosie Cotton.”

Eowyn had a mental image of red cloth snapping in the wind. “What’s rosie cotton?” she asked.

“Not ‘what.’ Who. Rose Cotton was the lass I was singing about.”

“Truly?” Eowyn brushed the crumbs off her hands.

“’Porcupine’ was the least of what they called her. They also called her Briar Rose. Thorned Rose. Frost Rose. Winter Rose. Loving no one. Sharp and cruel and perilous.”

Eowyn suddenly suspected Merry was going to give her a paternal parable concerning the dangers of living in solitude. “I see. I suppose Rose lived a lonely life full of bitterness? She died badly and friendless? Thorns grew over her grave or nothing grew at all and she lies alone under the hard, bare ground?”

Merry waved her words aside. “Actually, no. When I left the Shire she was alive and healthy. As beautiful as ever.”

Eowyn wondered if she had the strength to continue the conversation. She looked at Merry’s expectant grin and decided she did. “But the songs? You said she was Briar Rose.”

“It’s a long, revoltingly romantic story. Not a single battle or evisceration anywhere. Are you sure you want to hear it? I understand you like war stories best?”

Eowyn was sore, weary and disturbed by strange speculations but she kept to her decision. This was a subject that interested her and any distraction was welcome. “Tell me about the Frost Rose.”

“Well!” Merry rubbed his hands together. “Long ago, in a land far, far away…” Eowyn leaned forward to catch every word and Merry inched closer to accommodate her. “…there lived a beautiful, happy Hobbit-lass named Rose Cotton. Her family was well-to-do and well-respected. All the Gentlehobbits within traveling distance fell over themselves to win her over but Rose could not find one that she would be content to live the rest of her life with. She was young, you see.”

Eowyn nodded, understanding. Merry continued. “Now, one of those Gentlehobbits, who shall remain NAMELESS and BLAMELESS...” He looked around guiltily and Eowyn put a hand over her mouth to hide her smirk. “…had a father who couldn’t conceive of his golden boy, his only son, handsome and heir to fortunes, estates and endless gardens, not sending Rosie into a swoon. This father began to spread the rumor that there was something inherently wrong with Rose. Something cold. Something unnatural and unfeeling in the poor girl’s make-up.”

Eowyn’s hands clenched as if she would have cheerily wrapped them around the offender’s throat. Merry picked up the hem of his elven cloak and theatrically dabbed his eyes in sorrow. “The cry was taken up by other spiteful, rejected suitors, their fathers and mothers, lasses that were jealous of Rose and other foolish people who couldn’t mind their own business. ‘Rose Cotton has no heart!’ Worst of all, her own friends and family doubted her. ‘Why must you be so particular? What are you thinking? What’s wrong with you?’ Poor Rose began to think that there really was something wrong with her and she stopped singing, she stopped dancing and was Rosie no longer. She was Briar Rose, full of thorns and sorrow.” Merry bowed his head. “But THEN!” Eowyn jumped. “Her Knight arrived.”

“Ah,” said Eowyn tiredly. “He pulled her onto his valiant steed and rode off with her to his castle where she lived happily ever after?”

“No. He saw her walking down the road with her eyes on her feet and he threw the largest dirt-clod he could find at the back of her head. PAFF! It exploded. Dirt everywhere. All down the back of her dress and in her hair…she turned around and gaped at him. And he walked right up to her and called her a pureborn idiot and ninnyhammer and every other name for ‘dolt’ he could think of. He’d known her since she was a child, y’know. He knew what she really was. What her heart was truly like. And he couldn’t believe that she would believe the gossip and forget herself so easily.”

“She listened to him?” Eowyn tentatively asked.

“Again…No. She drew back and gave him the sweetest punch to the jaw I’ve ever seen. Poor Frodo went flying.”

“The Ringbearer? He wouldn’t! She didn’t!”

“Oh, you know them so well, do you?”

Merry was the only Hobbit Eowyn had ever seen and she surrendered. He continued blithely. “I was visiting Frodo with Pippin, our cousin who came with us on this lovely journey, and I thought we were going to choke to death laughing. Rosie went stomping off and Pip went after her while I scraped Frodo off the road. The entire left side of his face turned black and blue. All of Bywater laughed at him for days.” Eowyn put her head in her hands and her shoulders shook. “Pip convinced Rosie that you can’t punch someone like that if you’re bloodless and cold and she stopped listening to the idiocy around her. She became happy again and gave Frodo an enormous frosted cake to show how sorry she was. Of course he pierced it through with a tree twig before he reckoned it was safe to eat but he accepted her apology. They became great friends.”

“And THEN they fell in love and were happy?” Eowyn dared to ask. Merry grasped her hand in mock pity. The cold of it seeped into her skin.

“No. She fell in love with his gardener and Frodo wanted to die.” Merry leaned close and blocked his mouth with his free hand in case there were any lip-reading eavesdroppers lurking in the night. “Don’t tell anyone I told you that. Frodo thinks it’s his secret.”

“Oh. Well. I won’t then,” Eowyn promised as sincerely as if she were going to breakfast with half the Shire in the morning. “But…she is happy with the gardener?”

“No. Frodo’s gardener is Sam. Sam Gamgee, the fourth member of our walking party. I suspect that Sam was on the verge of proposing before he left but…”

“Are you telling me that Rosie has been left alone? That…that is…a terrible story! Why did you tell me such a terrible story? It wasn’t romantic at all.” Eowyn couldn’t believe she was protesting a LACK of romance in a story. Some warrior.

“My point is, I suppose, she’s alone now, yes, but she’s not bothered by stupid songs anymore.”

Eowyn rolled her eyes in exasperation and then, finally, she laughed. A silent, breath of a laugh but a laugh all the same, her first in days beyond count. Songs. Stupid, foolish songs. “Poor Rose.”

Merry’s face clouded over and Eowyn knew that he was remembering the faces of the people he loved and missed desperately. “Poor Rose. Poor Sam. Poor Frodo. Poor me. Poor you. Poor horses…” Merry’s voice became far away and weary and Eowyn, still holding his hand, grasped it harder.

The words were hard to say but she had to say them though they were a small and insincere repayment for the comfort he had given to her during the Rohirrim’s seemingly endless ride. “Master Meriadoc, I have…hope…despite the dark and the war, despite everything…I hope, for Rose’s sake, that Sam and Frodo return to her.”

Merry’s eyes were huge with an unreadable expression and his hand was lifeless in hers. “And I hope, for Rose’s sake, that Sam and Frodo do not.” He pulled away and stood up, turning from Eowyn. Despite the gloom she could see Merry’s shoulders hunch and she rubbed the chill he had left behind out of her fingers.

The camps were quiet now. The mass of soldiers and horses, grasping at the few short hours of rest grudgingly allotted to them, were quiet. Only the night wind of Springtime, carrying the scents of new, tender greenery, leaves, flowers and gently waving grasses, moved in the dark stillness. Isolated in their clearing of aspen trees Eowyn suddenly felt she and Merry were the only creatures in the world. He was the only friend she had. She was the only friend he had. At last, a Holbytla of her very own. A quirky corner of her mind briefly wondered if he had ever dreamed of having a blonde, miserable warrior-woman of his very own as a child. Probably not.

She reached out and gently patted him between the shoulder blades. “Here. I’m petting you.”

Merry suddenly wheezed with surprised laughter. “I knew you, at least, couldn’t resist the golden boy for long.”

“I’m not as strong as the Briar Rose.”

“I don’t know…if you caught her by surprise…Now that’s a fight I’d dearly love to see.” Eowyn stroked his curly hair and he leaned into her touch as if he would surely collapse without it.

A sudden burst of frantic activity in the camp caught their attention. It was Thonwyn of the Second Eored and he was hissing like a cornered goose among Eowyn’s men. She and the Hobbit became still and strained to hear every word. “Eomer’s horse! The Lord Eomer’s own horse! Bleeding! There is a foul and terrible evil loose within the camps! Unnatural! Hateful! Loathsome!”

 _“Tread lightly, they are near_  
within the Dark.  
Speak quietly, they still hear.  
Coffin board and heavy stone  
keep them not.  
They are thirsting!”

Thonwyn's babbling was quickly suppressed and he was escorted back to his own camp before his panic could spread any further. Eowyn listened to his rantings fade and turned back to Merry. He was a ball of misery on the ground, his head in his hands. Eowyn drew closer and put her arm around him. “I say to you,” she whispered, “What you so kindly said to me. Don’t listen to songs. There are no monsters here, just frightened soldiers trying to worry each other with children’s tales.”

“Oh, but Lady,” Merry breathed, glancing at her. “You Rohirrim thought the ‘Holbytlan’ were nothing but children’s tales and look at me.” Eowyn was gazing at the ground as the wind moved through the aspens and said nothing. “Eowyn?”

“Yes?”

“Look at me.”

She raised her head and her heart nearly stopped still as she was caught by the pale glow of her friend’s eyes. They were the only illumination in that night of deepest dark and she stared at them, at him, in fear, though she had guessed the truth long ago. Merry placed his hands on each side of her face, a cold cage of fingers around her features. “Please, please, don’t scream,” he begged. “Please. I couldn’t stand it. And…besides…you’ll be found out if you scream. You’ll be sent back in disgrace. Please…”

“I won’t scream, Master Meriadoc,” she said in a steady whisper. Her heart was beating hard enough to pull on every vein in her body but she still found it amusing that he sounded as afraid as she was. “I won’t scream. I knew, you see.” Merry frantically studied her face. His fingers began to compulsively stroke her skin in what she supposed was a manner meant to be calming. She caught them with her own hands and held them still. Merry gasped at her sudden movement.

“How?” he finally asked. “How did you know?”

“How strange that two childhood legends should appear at once. A Holbytla and a Drinker springing up out of the grass, as it were. What are the odds? And you, you with your cold skin and your riddling words. ‘You’d be surprised at what was before your very nose, Eowyn.’ What was before me? You were. Or ‘I’ve already eaten something snatched out from under your brother.’ What is under my brother? His horse. There were so many other hints and double meanings and games. You must think me very stupid to suppose that I would not understand you.” Eowyn stopped and stared at him, alarmed. Merry was crying. Dark tears traveled slowly down his pale face and he clapped a hand over his mouth to keep in a sudden sob.

“No, I never thought you were stupid,” He groaned softly. “That’s just…that’s just what Hobbits do. We speak in jokes and riddles to hide what we are truly feeling and thinking. I am afraid, and lonely and weary…and you, you are all I have. I had to show you or go mad.”

“I know.” Eowyn reached out and wiped away his tears with her warm fingers, not minding the red stains they left on her skin. “I know, Merry.” As if dropping his formal title of ‘Master Meriadoc’ was the signal, Merry suddenly stood and launched himself into her arms knocking her clumsily back onto the grass. She felt the cold of him penetrate through her clothing but she held him tightly. “It’s all right. There are no monsters here. Just stories and lies and stupid, stupid songs.”

“Elbereth, I don’t believe it. Thank you so much, thank you.” Eowyn wondered if he was thanking Elbereth (who was Elbereth?) or herself. They curled around each other on the ground and Eowyn ran her fingers through his hair until he regained some measure of calm.

Finally, she whispered, “How?” Merry shook his head, the glow fading from his eyes, as he twined her blonde hair around his hands as if he were binding himself with golden cords.

“A Barrow Wight got Sam, Pippin and I and we were cursed. Frodo rescued us before we lost our souls completely. Then, before we even realized what we were doing, we got Frodo. Oh, poor cousin Frodo. Not Bombadil, Gandalf or Elrond, none of the great people, could do anything for the four of us. It is…hoped…that…should our quest succeed…the hunger inside us will be destroyed, the curse lifted. I’ll tell you, Eowyn, I’m not holding my breath,” he finished bitterly. “We’ll never be able to go home like this. The entire Shire would shun us. We’re homeless, separated…I…don’t have any hope left.”

Eowyn caressed his cheek with her thumb. “Neither do I. I only desire death in battle. That is not too much to ask for.”

“Yes, but, Sweeting, as you can see, death has been no escape for me. The Barrow Wights and the Oath Breakers upon the Paths of the Dead have found no escape either.” Eowyn flinched at his mention of that dreadful road. Merry tucked a few stray golden strands of hair behind her ear and whispered, “Nor will you. Death is a weak thing.” Her face contorted in despair. “I’m sorry, but it’s true. If you want peace you must find it while you are alive.”

“Peace as we’re all riding to war?”

“There is a flaw in my logic but…still…” Eowyn found the strength to smile bitterly. “Aren’t we the sorry pair,” Merry observed.

“We are truly pathetic, ah, 'Sweeting?’ That’s a new one,” Eowyn said and Merry grinned at her.

“Would you like me to go back to calling you Dumpling?”

“NO! Sweeting is fine.” They laughed together softly. They had no hope but they had each other and that was enough.

Merry leaned up on one elbow and drew close.

Eowyn thought he was going to give her a chaste peck on the face but…

…he did not.

She felt the press of sharp teeth on her cheek and a sting. She gasped as wet warmth began to seep down her face. Merry drew back and watched her for the briefest of moments before returning his mouth to the tiny wound. Eowyn was surprised and cursed herself for a fool. She actually thought she was safe? What ignorant supposition made her think that Merry could feed only from horses? Why was she holding still? Ignorant, foolish... Merry gently mouthed the wound. Bliss. Oh, bliss. Her eyes drooped closed. He was tasting her.

She felt she should push him away. She was the Shieldmaiden of Rohan, royal, untouchable, she should stop him, her Holbytla.

She did not.

Tears were drawn from her eyes and Merry tasted them also as her heart beat with pleasure and fear and a sudden craving. A hunger she had always had and denied made itself known, refusing to be dismissed as heat built up throughout her skin. She felt another sting on her jawline and his lips covered that small cut. Eowyn made the smallest sound as she twined her fingers through his curls pressing him closer. He was cool to her touch. He didn’t reek of sweat and horses. He was her friend.

He leaned away. “Eowyn?”

Eowyn opened her eyes and pulled on his cloak. She wanted to be kissed at last. She wanted to be kissed on the mouth. It was vitally imperative that she be kissed on the mouth immediately. “Kiss me.”

“Yes, indeed,” he breathed and cradled her head with his hands as he obeyed.

His lips were soft. She could taste her own blood on his tongue. It was good. Oh, it was good to be kissed. It was good to kiss him back. Good to touch. Good to be wanted and needed. Good to feel the cold of him surround her as his arms held her tighter. She gasped for air and Merry released her to run the tips of his long fingers over every curve and plane of her face as she knew he had wanted to from the moment they met. He coveted her soft skin, her mouth, her throat…Merry nipped at her flesh, not breaking the skin, and she gasped at the controlled power of his sharp teeth. She recaptured his mouth, savoring the sensation of being loved as his hands pulled through the gold of her hair. At last.

Red streaks marred his pale face and she worshipped them, running kisses over his skin. Tasting, oh, this is what clean, pure desire tastes like. She never knew. She became brave and nipped Merry just under his ear and he moaned deep in his chest, a vibration she could feel against her breasts. He was panting and she rejoiced, biting him again. SHE was doing this to him. She was pinned, now, but she had the power. She could make him feel so good...

“Now,” he groaned, tilting her head back and hooking a finger into the collar of her shirt, pulling it down, exposing her throat. Eowyn felt the night air on her neck and jammed her fist against her mouth as she felt his breath upon her pulse. “Now…here…” This would be no delicate, loving scratch.

Merry bit, driving sharp spears directly into her soul and her scream was muffled against her hand and his cloak. Her body arched as she dug her heels into the soft grass. He held her tightly and her last conscious thought was, ah, how strange that someone half my size should be twice as strong.

He drank, and Eowyn gasped and gasped again and wept. “Yes, take it all…” Ecstasy, ecstasy, her body and his pressed together and writhing as his flesh became warm against hers, at last. But then he sobbed against her neck and stopped drinking. She slowly returned to the world and was still, her heart beating, beating, beating loud, protesting. Merry gently worried the wound with his tongue, swallowing, and she stifled another cry against his shoulder. Soon, with a hungry reluctance she could feel, Merry forced himself to pull away, and kissed her deeply on the mouth as he held two fingers over the bite to stop the bleeding. Eowyn’s own blood seeped from the corners of her lips as she hugged him to her with all her strength. Hers. Her own.

They became still and the night wind blew across their insensate bodies and played with their hair.

 

A powerful thirst and the sensation of her face being gently swiped with cool water woke Eowyn. She could hear the camp waking up unhappy as their rest came to an end. She opened her eyes and watched Merry as he dribbled more water onto a clean corner of a red-stained cloth then reached to finish washing her face. He saw she was awake and froze, shrinking back. She sat up but didn’t move any further. Merry cautiously continued to gently swab her face and neck until all her bloodstains were gone. She felt the cold water pass over the bite wound on her neck and shuddered with the pleasure of it. Merry flinched. “Sorry. I’m sorry. Does it hurt much?”

“It doesn’t hurt at all. At all. I am very thirsty, however.”

“Here.” Merry picked up and held out the waterskin. “Drink it all. I’ll get more before we leave. And eat. Eat as much of your rations as you can, I’ll get more of those, too. Can you stand?” Eowyn carefully rose to her feet. Only the thirst and a brief bout of dizziness plagued her.

“I’m all right. I’ll be able to ride,” she said, anticipating his question.

“I have the latest news,” he remarked, anticipating her own. “Wild men from the forest are going to sneak us into the siege of Gondor. We’ll be surprising Mordor’s forces after all.”

“Good.” The thirst was powerful and she drank the cool, clean water as she experimentally walked a few steps. She was steady. Merry watched her. Unable to stand it any more she walked back, dropped to her knees in front of him and pulled him in, hurriedly kissing him on the mouth. He flung the rag aside and wrapped his arms tight around her. The broke apart for a gasp of air and a brief laugh as they gazed into each other's eyes. Merry bowed his head and slowly caught her mouth again. The kiss was almost lazy in its surety and Eowyn could feel his relief in her soul.

Bliss.

A twig snapping broke their reverie and they looked up. One of the men from Eowyn’s Eored had come to wake her and was now standing frozen with one foot in the air. His mouth was open and he stared at the two of them in deepest shock. “Good morning,” Eowyn said and Merry waved. The man turned around and went sprawling over a tree root. He picked himself up and hurried away without looking back.

“Sing about that, why don’tcha?” Merry suggested to the rider's back and Eowyn smothered her laugh against his elven cloak. Merry stroked her hair.

She stood carefully and reluctantly. “We must prepare to go.” She picked up her armor and began to buckle it on. Windfola stepped up expectantly and she saddled him. Merry didn’t help. He couldn’t reach. He picked up the waterskin and brought it to her and she reached down for it. His long fingers caught hers and Merry stared up at her.

“Eowyn, look at you. How can I ever fit you down a Hobbit hole?” He slapped a hand over his mouth. “That is…I meant…uh…” Eowyn laughed.

“You will be going back to your Shire, then?” She asked softly. “’Cursed’ as you are?”

“Should I be so lucky to survive, to live..." Both of them were silent for a moment as they realized what it meant to live, live, live despite all darkness. "I feel…I feel if you can accept me having known me for only a few days then the ones who have known me for years…my family…”

“They will welcome you with open arms, curse or no curse. They know you and they love you. I love you.” He grinned in amazed delight. She bent and kissed him again, reveling in her ability to love someone. “They may have a problem with me, however. I’m entirely too big and I can’t sing or dance or cook,” she teased. “Briar Rose will fit you better, I think.”

Merry laughed. “Frodo and Sam will have something to say about that, I’m sure.” His fingers traced along her cheeks in slow, lazy circles. “They’ll steal her away before she even realizes what's happening.”

Eowyn kissed him again. “Not if you reach her first.”

 

End


End file.
